Room in Heaven

My room is quite spartan. Well, that’s what a criminal like me deserves. 3 meters wide, 3 meters long and 3 meters high. Do you see a pattern here? One hole, where I get my food, shit / pee bags for my suit and where I can put all my trash. Ah yes, and one door that’s always closed.

They keep me in the dark, the only light I see is when the small hole opens. It is kind of depressing, but well... I found a way to actually take advantage of that, and make my time more enjoyable here.

When you spend too much time in a dark, isolated and totally silent environment your mind goes crazy, I mean totally crazy. You start to see things, to hear things.

I use those hallucinations to furnish my room. A sofa next to the wall – black leather, good for sitting on it with friends and using it for sleeping. One small nightstand next to it, a brown lamp and a few painkillers. You know, I often get a migraine; I might be allergic to leather.

One big TV in front of the sofa, a few video game consoles and a good sound system. 24/7 access to all channels, Netflix subscription and porn. Lots of it. Of course, there is also a PC connected to the TV, and I can use a wireless mouse and keyboard to control it. Because I’m an elitist and rich.

There is also a small desk, an extremely comfortable chair next to it, and my favorite typewriter. Yeah, a mechanical typewriter. I love to listen to the harsh sounds of the keys; it’s simply gratifying. I can hear my neighbors banging their heads against the wall when I write. I just don’t care. For fucks sake, I’m an artist, I have to create. Without that, I’m nothing.

Put me in a cage with nothing in it, and even though I might go crazy, I still find ways to create. Furniture, equipment and ways of having fun. Sometimes I just listen to the music coming from the old gramophone. Blues, an amazing harmonica solo partnering up with a bass guitar and a rusty, tired voice.

Sometimes the room expands to let more people in. Usually a blues band, whose recordings I was listening to previously. A few people and a bar. Smoke dancing in the air to the heartwarming rhythms, and a beautiful girl sitting next to me on the sofa whispering naughty things into my ear. She hugs my left arm; she nuzzles against my shoulder and purrs like a bored cat which wants to play. She occasionally kisses my cheek, licks my neck and her fingers are drawing circles on my chest. I just reach for the whiskey on the nightstand and take a cigar, while putting a few painkillers in my drink. Because fuck the world.

While I smoke, the puffs coming from my mouth form strange but worryingly familiar figures. They dance and tell a story. One of them is like a woman, dancing around lightly with a paintbrush that’s creating slowly decaying streaks of smoke. The other one is a man, who is looking at the woman with lust and uncertainty. A story of a man, who went crazy and killed his only true love. A writer, who lost all his will to live, lost all his will to write and gave up.